Terrible Ten
by HaloFin17
Summary: The "Terrible Two's"? Oh, no. Number Ten will give poor Tristan way more trouble! A purely fluffy oneshot dedicated to Mandamirra10. Enjoy!


**Summary:** The "Terrible Two's"? Oh, no. Number Ten will give poor Tristan way more trouble! A purely fluffy oneshot dedicated to **Mandamirra10**. Hope you enjoy it, girl!

**Disclaimer: **No profit, no ownership. Need I say more?

**Terrible Ten**

Tristan trudged on through wind-driven sleet, happy to follow the golden lure of a lantern in the window of his destination. It was late, even by the standards of the local tavern; and as he strode inside, Tristan saw that the place was indeed deserted, with the exception of one familiar smiling face.

"Tristan! Welcome back, you sly devil, you! We weren't expecting to see you until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Bors clapped his friend on the back with his free hand, as the other was occupied with balancing a child on his hip. It would have been a laughable sight, were it not also one they were all well accustomed to seeing. Ten was not yet even a year old, but already he was soon to be supplanted as the youngest in Bors' extensive family, in light of Vanora's recent announcement that Eleven was on the way.

Tristan gave the larger knight a quick nod of greeting in return, then shrugged off his water-logged cloak and dropped it beside the cheery, flickering fire.

"I made good time on the return," he explained succinctly, vigorously rubbing his hands together to get the blood in his fingers circulating again. "Just wanted to find something warm to eat before checking in with Arthur."

"Ah, yes, speaking of Arthur," Bors began while directing his comrade to a kettle of still-warm stew. "That reminds me I'm supposed to meet with him and the others at the Round Table tonight for some sort of strategy council. We were told about it just after you left last week."

"If it's that important, shouldn't I be there, too?"

"Well, but you see, Arthur still thinks you're out scouting the northern terrain, so he won't expect you to be there. But me, I'm liable to have my ears boxed if don't show."

"Hmph. Then what are you going to do with…" the younger Sarmatian nodded half-heartedly at Ten, who was gnawing away at his own fist for lack of any better teething toy.

"What, with him?" Bors laughed, but the expression did not carry its usual joviality. "Oh, I just thought I'd find someone…trustworthy to leave him with, that's all."

Tristan caught his friend's eye and stopped with a spoon half-way to his open mouth. "You mean _me_? Why? Where's Vanora?"

"Eight got real sick all of a sudden, so Vanora had to run back home for a while." Bors shifted Ten in arms. "And this one just won't fall asleep for me; apparently I don't have his mother's 'magic charm'. She left me in charge here, but surely you can keep things from falling apart, can't you?" The smile he threw Tristan was brittle at best, and far from comforting.

"Vanora said he might get hungry, so there's some barley mash over there by the fire. Just be sure to warm it a little before you give it to him."

Tristan gaped, stuttering over a rush words in emphatic protest. "But listen, Bors, I never said…"

"I'm sure you won't have any trouble," Bors went on hastily. "And if you do, well…Vanora should be back soon."

And without any further ado, Tristan found a wriggling, squirming bundle promptly deposited into his arms. The knight's panic was urgent now. "Wait, you can't just leave me here!"

But the door slammed shut against the cold autumn wind, and in the blink of an eye, Tristan was utterly alone. He stared down at the little creature in his hands, entirely clueless of what was to be done next. At least the child appeared happy enough. For now.

A good part of him wanted to leave – to simply flee and have nothing more to do with all this nonsense. But even he, a "ruthless killer" by the account of many, was not so cruel as to leave a mere babe unattended and without protection. There appeared to be no alternative but to wait here until some angel of mercy arrived to rescue him.

Ten cooed and bent his head down to chew contentedly on the fabric of Tristan's sleeve. Tristan separated the mouth from his arm, eyeing with abject disgust the strings of drool that still connected them. He tried to shift the baby so that at least he would sit upright, but that presented another problem when Ten reached out for his face in typical childlike curiosity.

The miniscule hand seeking entrance into his mouth was crusty and clammy, and when he tried to pull it away, Tristan learned at his own expense that those tiny crescent fingernails were sharp. The knight hissed angrily, already hoping that the long, thin red line just below his lip wouldn't leave a scar. After all he'd gone through to earn his other marks of battle, this would just be too humiliating.

But before he could dwell further on that subject, he felt his head give an involuntary jerk downward, and the Sarmatian grimaced. That horrid child had his hair – his _hair!_ – wrapped up in a tight little fist and was pulling with far more strength than would have been thought possible for his diminutive size. Swearing hotly under his breath, Tristan sought to free his hair from its captor, only to realize in utter horror that the baby's grimy fingers were genuinely tangled in his braid.

Ten, as though somehow sensing the irony of the situation, giggled with glee at his caretaker's predicament. It was not the wisest course of action. If looks could incinerate, the child would have been reduced to a sizzling pile of baby fat before Tristan's malevolent gaze.

But, still blissfully unaware of any present danger, Ten simply gurgled again and tried to bring the fistful of brown hair into his slavering mouth. A bad idea. That was the last straw for Tristan, and heedless of what tears might ensue, he grabbed the little hand in his own and began prying those tiny, grasping fingers apart. It must have hurt him every bit as much as it hurt the child, with every movement yanking against his head as he frantically extricated each grubby finger from a net of tangled braids.

When at last the frightful job was done, Tristan set the boy down on the cold, hard floor without another thought. Ten cried aloud in protest, the grating noise ever increasing in volume and intensity. Tristan tried to ignore it, calling on all the steely reserve he could muster, but finally even he could tolerate no more of it.

The knight reluctantly bent to pick up his charge once more and held him at arm's length, away from any and all handholds, wearing a look of complete disapproval. How could anyone in their right mind actually _wish _to have such a bane descend upon their life? At least now the sobbing had stopped and was contained to a few miserable whimpers, but that did little to console Tristan. _What on earth was he supposed to do now?_

Just then, the door creaked open, and the scout's braids whipped violently across his face as he turned to behold the newcomer. It wasn't Vanora, unfortunately, or even Bors; but it was close enough.

"Dagonet!" Tristan almost failed to keep the raw, desperate emotion and sheer relief out of his voice, not to mention off of his face. "I'm glad you're here. Listen, you've got to take this wretched creature away from me, or at least get Bors back in here so I can kill him."

The larger knight looked him up and down, and doubtless had the entire situation assessed in one quick glance. But Dagonet – all the gods curse him! – actually had the audacity to wink at his unfortunate friend while grabbing a couple of rolls from a basket on the countertop.

"You know I'm no good with kids," he said with a smirk. And then he left, without one more word or glance back at his distressed comrade.

"Liar!" Tristan's typical composure was a long-forgotten memory by now. "You liar, I've seen you! Dagonet, get back here!"

It was all wasted breath, of course, and only served to further upset Ten so that he started wailing again. For a while, it appeared there would be no respite this time; until Tristan, by some blessed miracle, remembered Bors' words about feeding the child. Surely that would help!

Awkwardly trying to balance the boy in one arm like he'd seen the babe's parents do so many times, Tristan gingerly made his way across the room to where a bowl of barley mash sat near the stove. He stirred it with one hand to gauge if it was still warm, but in light of the child's hiccupping sobs, eventually decided there was neither the time nor the patience to heat it up.

He brought the bowl over to a table and sat with Ten perched precariously on his lap. Tristan quickly decided that if anyone were to walk unexpectedly through that door now and see him in this position, he would have no choice but to cut out their tongue to keep them quiet.

It was beyond any doubt the first time he had ever attempted to feed a hungry child, and his attempts were certainly just that – attempts. By the time the bowl was empty and lukewarm mash had ended up on the table, on the floor, and all over both parties involved, Tristan could only hope some of the stuff had actually made its way into Ten's tummy. But the boy did appear much happier while his minder made a rather feeble effort of wiping up their mushy mess.

Alas, sadly, the peace was not to last, as the next curse of childcare came in an assault upon Tristan's nose. The smell was unmistakable, even to someone with this knight's limited knowledge of children, and he knew it could only mean one thing. It felt like he was going to gag and retch, but a seasoned warrior like him was supposed have more control over his stomach than that. It was getting difficult, though, as the stench slowly permeated the entire room, and there was no escape. He really shouldn't put this off much longer; it had to be done.

But finally, just as he was certain that a frozen, lonely death would have been better than this noxious fate, Tristan was delivered from his torment when the door swung open once more and a smiling, rosy-cheeked Vanora stepped across the threshold. Tristan could have kissed her feet! He settled for her cheek, much to her bewilderment, and scarcely remembered to drop Ten back into her arms before grabbing his cloak and dashing out the door as though all the fires of hell were at his heels.

Vanora's exclamations of surprise and gratitude alike never reached his ears as the scout fled. He needed to kill something – anything! His stumbling legs brought him to the knights' training ground, and his hands were reaching for his bow and quiver before he was even cognizant of their movement. He spent the next hour shooting arrows into his archery target until it was reduced to nothing more than shreds of dusty hay.

Finally feeling more like himself again, Tristan lowered the bow with a sigh. He couldn't be sure his reeling mind would ever be the same again. But even then – some distant and dangerous scouting mission, preferably one involving a few cut throats, had never sounded more blessedly welcome! Perhaps there was hope for his ailing sanity, after all?

He went to find Arthur.

~ The End


End file.
